Dance, Dance, Revolution

Saturday nights at Roccapulco you pay admission and if you get there early, you take a salsa class and dance for the rest of the night. Me and my crew – Amanda, Courtney, and Alec – were completely fearless. And Alec had actually been sent on a mission from his family: learn to dance before you injure someone.  

The club itself made us immediately feel like we were in a developing country – a place with a wild dictator, Cokes with cane sugar, and interesting snack chips. The dance floor was large, and we initially thought we were the only people there for the lesson. But soon after our instructor’s first shimmy, we were surrounded by aspiring  salsaleros .  

We learned the basic eight-count move – one, two, three, rest, and five, six, seven, rest. Back and forth, with a rotation of our hips, we repeated the steps. I watched Courtney and Amanda – both had taken baton and tap lessons as kids and it showed; they were quick studies. Poor Alec, on the other hand, was working on finding his hips. 

The instructor slowly built on each step until we were in a large circle, each with a partner. Some dance partners were better than others, some more experienced, and some smelled really bad. There were plenty of partners for everyone, but I quickly learned that salsa was much harder for men than women; they needed to lead and legitimately know what the hell they were doing. 

After the class ended, we watched as the dance floor filled. The crowd was mixed – Latinos, middle-aged men from Cupertino, geeky college students, and elderly men who looked like old-school dance instructors. There were also couples who looked straight out of  Dancing with the Stars –  men with oily hair and polished shoes and women with thighs like drumsticks and skirts that barely covered their rumps.  

Alec was in heaven. He quickly found a table full of 24-year-old bachelorettes. In turn, the three of us ladies rarely sat down – it was as if once the men realized we were willing, our dance cards were always full.  

A band came on, brass and all, and the dancing became more frenzied. There was sweat dripping everywhere! I danced with a small man from Stockton who smelled like an old tire. There were a few guys from the dance lesson, some college students, and a man who looked like a Cuban cowboy. 

My favorite was Sam – he resembled a Latino linebacker gone to rot. He had zany facial expressions and tossed me around like he was throwing a steak on the grill.  He  knew how to lead, and I could’ve danced with him all night. He dipped me so close to the ground he had to catch my head with his big paw before my skull cracked against the floor. Yes, Sam knew how to dip a girl, and he made me look good. This was the lesson for the night – I was really there for the dips.  

We talked to a ton of people at Roccapulco, learning about lessons and other dance clubs around town. One guy, a great dancer, recommended ODC’s classes in the Mission.  

My friend Mauri has taken salsa lessons with Edwin for two years. She’s a pro, excelling at everything she ever attempts and, though she veers away from salsa clubs, last year she actually entered a few salsa competitions. And won. Based on her recommendation, I decided to sign up for a private lesson with Edwin.  

Edwin teaches out of the large ground-floor studio space at Cheryl Burke Dance studio. This means during a lesson you’re surrounded by other dancers – all these couples practicing everything from tango to modern dance.  

Even without the music, Edwin helped me get the salsa rhythm in my head – back and forth, my hips moving. He said his goal was to help his students be receptive. And though I was learning the whole time, it felt like I was simply dancing with a friend, following his lead. Afterwards, Edwin said, “You have good rhythm. You aren’t afraid to move.” I knew I was starting to get this salsa thing – and leaving the studio I found myself moving my rear like I had one.